


To the Ghost

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-17
Updated: 2004-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco, Hermione, and war stories about Ron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kestrelsan for spot-on on-the-spot revision suggestions.

1.

He remembered his last ride on this train, returning to school for his seventh and final year, remembered how the night before he had thrown open the windows of his rooms at Malfoy Manor, the summer breeze pushing in like a moist hand as he stared at the skull emblazoned on the sky. Breathing deep the scents of grass, the wet earth remnants of rain, he had thought of his father Apparating blindly toward the Mark, like an arrow hurtling through blackness.

"We are at war." In his head Draco heard his father's voice, saw the flames flickering around his father's newly gaunt face, terrible and strange. "We are besieged in our own house."

Draco had thought that redundant, considering the source: Lucius Malfoy, escaped prisoner, less a family, a fortune and a bloodline, forced to speak with his own son through an illicit fireplace in the heart of Knockturn Alley.

He looked up at the Dark Mark, looked down and caught a telltale shimmer in a copse of trees: Aurors, always watching. Draco backed out of sight, suppressing the urge to send a hex across the grounds.

His father's voice sounded in his head again. "The time for petty corridor duels has ended. You must show the Dark Lord you are a Malfoy."

"Yes, Father," Draco had said. He said it again to himself -- "Yes, Father," -- turning from the window and the Mark to finger the invisibility cloak hanging from his bedpost. The silvery folds rippled beneath his hand, rich with secrets and promises. He thought of sliding the cloak around his body, trailing Potter in a fold of shadow, leisurely raising his wand and speaking the curse that would change everything.

But the next day, he found himself hurrying out of the prefects' compartment where Weasley and Granger were missing, up and down the train shoving open doors to students' surprised protests, looking for dark hair and glasses, for a lightning bolt scar.

But there was nothing. The day outside got darker as they drew closer to the school, and all the while his heart crept higher and higher into his throat.

Potter was gone. Weasley and Granger were gone. They had escaped.

*

Years later, as he sat alone on the Hogwarts Express, Draco's thoughts drifted back to all of these things, like debris pushed onto shore. Outside his window the land fell away from the tracks like the slow-moving surface of a sea, at once familiar and strange, pushing memories from hiding places and old dreams awake.

A curve in the tracks made the train lurch, shifting his weight to his hip. Pain shot through the joint -- he made his ritual damnation of Ron Weasley, and just as painfully wrenched himself away from the thought. He imagined Hogwarts' long, drafty corridors, the cold damp stone of the Slytherin dungeon, and dreaded the coming winter.

The train rocked and lulled him. Draco let his eyes drift shut.

He dreamed of his father towering over him in a black cloak, aiming his wand with a sneer. "Have you forgotten me so easily?"

Behind Lucius the air split open and Harry Potter emerged from an invisibility cloak, shouting, " _Avada kedavra!_ " Only instead of Potter's voice, it was Draco's.

He jerked awake and found that the train was pulling into Hogsmeade station. Rising with some difficulty, Draco made his way onto the platform amid a group of students. There seemed to be fewer of them than he remembered from his own years as a student. He realized their numbers must have been thinned by the war, an effect he was only now witnessing firsthand.

The students piled into the thestral-drawn carriages waiting by the platform. Draco hesitated, suppressing a shudder.

A familiar voice at the end called, "First-years this way, please! Carefully, now. Only four students to a boat."

Hermione Granger.

He turned and she met his eyes across the first-years' heads, her stare frank and open. He remembered that about her, that forthright honesty and unashamed lack of social niceties, the way she could strip a person bare with a solemn gaze and a few precise words. It had made tormenting her when they were students a dangerous undertaking.

He squared his shoulders and went toward her, limping slightly on the bad hip. She didn't blink.

"Granger," he said.

"Malfoy. I trust your journey was all right."

"Peaceful enough. So you're the first-year escort."

"Yes, though I'm here to meet you as well."

Figured as much. He wondered if she'd tried to pass the job off. "Well, now you've found me."

"So I have." Hermione paused. "I'd forgotten you were injured. McGonagall likes for the new teachers to arrive by the traditional first-year route, but perhaps it would be more comfortable for you in one of the carriages."

"And miss the pleasure of your company?" He thought her mouth twitched at this reappearance of his old malice, but she schooled her expression quickly. "Anyway, it's an old injury. I don't need coddling."

"As you wish." She turned and led the way to the mooring area.

He managed to get into one of the empty boats with a minimum of fuss, although stepping down from the dock twisted his hip painfully. Conscious of Hermione's watchful gaze, he revealed nothing, quickly settling onto one of the seats. As soon as she'd sat down across from him, the line of boats slid away from the docks in the direction of the castle.

He studied Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She looked much the same: bushy hair, sharp eyes, fingers smudged with ink. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen her. It couldn't have been on the battlefield, could it? He had a clear image of her running toward him, kneeling between him and Potter with her wand outstretched. The sky behind her was dark, shot with streaks of light.

Nothing after that, though it was difficult to say for certain which memories came before others. This one seemed newly surfaced, perhaps shaken out of the mess by her presence. He tried to determine if the scene was from before or after his father's death, and found that he couldn't be certain.

He supposed he could ask her, though it seemed a rather odd question to put to one's childhood nemesis.

Would she mention Weasley? Ron Weasley who had shattered his bones and knit them together again, the spell inexpert, Draco's wand ill-fitted to his hand. Draco remembered coming awake in the dim stone cellar, looking up at Weasley's fierce dirty face, Weasley promising, "If you move I'll kill you."

Dusk was settling on the lake. Hogwarts came into view; lights blazed from every window. Draco caught his breath at the sight. "I'd almost forgotten," he murmured.

Hermione nodded. "There are still some areas of the castle that aren't fully repaired, but on the whole it's much the same as when we attended."

"How long have you been on staff?"

"This is my second year."

Draco remembered what he'd heard of her activities after the war. "You were in the Ministry for a while."

"Less than a year. I thought I might be of some use with the reconstruction efforts. But it turns out I'm not much of a bureaucrat."

"I can believe that." He smirked.

She ignored the remark. "And what have you been doing?"

"Recovering."

It came out shorter than he'd intended, and a tense silence fell on the boat.

Recovering. The one word encompassed almost three years of convalescence, hiding in Malfoy Manor where the screaming ancestor portraits had all been smothered away in the cellars, the house scraped clean of dark magic by a cadre of Aurors and, later, Draco himself. Not that he'd used much: just the three rooms of his old childhood suite. The hallways were far too many and too winding for him to cover daily, and at any rate he'd had the house elves, what was left of them. In his mind Malfoy Manor was a crippled beast, vast wings locked down and left dark, all life directed inward like a fire banked in the heart.

After a few moments Granger looked up and met his eyes. "I was sorry about your father."

Draco at first didn't realize what she'd said. "My father," he snorted. "No great loss to the wizarding world."

"Perhaps not to some," she said.

The lights of stars and moon became torchlight. They had reached the caves beneath the school. The boats found their way easily to the docks, and then Draco was stepping out onto dry ground, doing so with some measure of relief, nodding quickly when Hermione asked if he could bring up the rear of the first-year line.

"I'm to remain here to lead the Sorting Ceremony," she said when they entered the castle. "You can take that passage to the Great Hall." She inclined her head toward a small door in the entranceway, one he had never noticed as a student. Warded against non-staff, he realized.

The passage opened immediately behind the front table. Draco paused on the threshold, taking in the view of the Great Hall. He must have seen it from this perspective before, at his own Sorting Ceremony, but even so it seemed new and wondrous now. He supposed back then he had been too busy sneering and posing to actually appreciate much: the ceiling a brilliant canopy of stars, the candles suspended in midair over the four house tables, the golden settings at each place.

And the students, of course, a flood of them already rushing to their seats. Some of them looked curiously up at him and whispered to their friends.

He had the sudden urge to bolt. Merlin's ghost, what was he doing here?

"Pardon me," someone said behind him.

Draco turned. "Hmm? Sorry." A youngish-looking fellow, bespectacled and stoop-shouldered, was trying to edge around him.

"You might take a chair," the man said. He indicated two empty ones. "Normally Hermione and I sit together, but I don't suppose she'd begrudge you a seat just the once."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Appreciated." They sat down. "You seem to know who I am."

"Of course. McGonagall considers you somewhat of a coup, you know." He proffered a hand to shake. "Stutts. Arithmancy and Muggle Studies."

"Two at once?"

"Most of the profs who've been here beyond a year are doubled up," Stutts explained. "There simply aren't enough of us, and the student body is so small anyway."

"And what does Granger teach?"

"Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Only the upper levels, though."

Draco grimaced. "Of course."

A side door to the Great Hall opened just then, and Hermione herself came out leading the column of first-years. The rest of the Hall quieted as she unrolled a parchment and tapped her throat with her wand.

"It is my pleasure to present this term's newest class," she said, her voice amplified to the rafters. "When I call your name and House, please proceed to the appropriate table."

"What's this?" Draco muttered to Stutts. "Where's the Sorting Hat?"

"Got rid of it." Stutts' eyes were fixed on Hermione, squinting through his spectacles in a way that reminded Draco disconcertingly of Potter. "Students're assigned randomly now."

"You're not serious."

"Stopped using the Hat ever since the war."

"You're saying they're all tossed in together according to no criteria at all?"

Stutts dragged his eyes away from Hermione. "You _have_ been gone a while. The debates have all raged, mate. It was simply the best way to deal with the Slytherin problem."

Draco pressed his lips together and turned to glare at Hermione.

The "Sorting Ceremony" finished quickly, scattered applause following each name. Hermione took a seat at the end of the table, and in the center McGonagall rose and began to speak.

The current Headmistress had certainly aged since Draco had last seen her, but she was as stern and strong-voiced as ever. "Welcome," she said. "We have high hopes for this term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I remind you all that codes of conduct are posted visibly in the common rooms of your Houses. For your own safety and the preservation of your academic standing, please abide by them. Should you have any questions, consult your prefects."

Her steely-eyed gaze scanned the Hall.

"In addition," McGonagall continued, "we have a new professor this term. Professor Draco Malfoy. He will be teaching you Potions."

Draco held still as a wave of whispers rolled up to the table. There was no applause. Not that he cared or would have wanted it anyway, but it was the name, of course. The bloody Malfoy name.

He saw as if they were sitting there now the others of his House, those pale imitations of their fathers: Crabbe and Goyle, Zabini, Nott. Boys posturing at being monsters. He found himself thinking back again to that last start-of-year feast, after the train and the realization of the trio's escape. He saw himself and the other Slytherins looking about suspiciously as murmurs ran up and down the House tables, news of the disappearance spreading fast.

Dumbledore's Army, Draco had mused, carefully studying the face of the Headmaster, calm as if nothing were amiss. He felt a stab of deep loathing for that long ragged beard, the sunken lying eyes.

"Look at that decrepit old relic," he had muttered to Crabbe and Goyle. "The Dark Lord'll string him from the castle gates." The Slytherins nearby, eavesdropping as usual, snickered.

Dumbledore looked over at them, his face lined and grave. Draco dropped his eyes.

"Where do you think they've gone?" Zabini asked.

Nott leaned in with a conspiratorial air. "I heard they got wind of the strike and ran."

Zabini narrowed his eyes. "What? What strike?"

"Against Potter and those two, of course. Didn't your house get a Mark?"

Draco kept his face carefully blank.

"The Dark Lord meant to move against them on the train today, before they could return to school. But somehow --" Nott leaned even closer, "-- they gave him the slip."

"No one escapes You-Know-Who," Crabbe averred. "We'll get them."

"We?" Zabini sneered. "What do you propose we do, _sniff_ them out?"

Nott snickered.

"Are you doubting our victory?" Goyle demanded.

"No. Just your part in it." Zabini arched an eyebrow at Draco. "What did your father tell you about this?"

"Nothing I'd share with you," Draco said coolly.

The other boys gave him assessing looks. Sixth year had been difficult; with his name so publicly besmirched he had been regarded by all of Slytherin House with something akin to shame and fear, avoided like a dirty secret. He knew that his father's escape over the summer had changed his status in their eyes, that he could resume his old rank and even take retribution against those who had cast him to the edges. An escaped Death Eater held an entirely different sort of fear in his grasp, and the shadow Lucius Malfoy cast was long.

But that knowledge was cold comfort. He'd thought his father's return would change everything, but the emptiness at the center of Gryffindor changed more. Sitting there listening to the other Slytherins bat their useless theories about, Draco thought back to his father's message and understood the truth of the matter, that he of all of them could not take the search for Potter lightly.

*

Stutts attempted to engage him in conversation during the feast -- he had been home-schooled, it turned out, which explained his nonchalance about the Sorting -- but Draco kept his replies short and noncommittal. He finished his meal quickly, better by far than anything the Malfoy house elves had prepared in the past three years, and found himself wondering if he was required to sit the rest of the feast through. Finally, he stood.

McGonagall stood as well, making her way to his seat. "I haven't had a chance to welcome you yet, Malfoy," she said. "Or to say in person how glad I am you accepted this appointment."

He had to suppress a sneer. Said appointment had been nothing more than politics: a coup, as Stutts had reported. The controversial restructuring of the Sorting only proved that McGonagall had hired him to placate the ranks of former Slytherin House members.

Of course, only a Gryffindor could so completely misread the current climate among said members. McGonagall had little idea, apparently, of the ill-regard Slytherins had for turncoats, traitors and patricides.

"Thank you for offering it to me, Headmistress." His voice came out gruff, and he cleared his throat.

"I understand you must be tired, but I'd like to schedule some time to speak with you privately. Nothing urgent -- just to establish a relationship."

He thought of Snape and Dumbledore, their two predecessors. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Slytherin banner hanging over the House table, and scowled. Why bother to keep the Houses the same if you weren't going to Sort the students?

"I haven't yet seen my schedule of classes," Draco said. "Can I suggest a time for us to meet once I do?"

"Certainly. I'm in Professor Dumbledore's old office, of course."

He nodded and made his excuses for leaving. As he passed Hermione's chair she pushed it out and stood as well.

"I'll show you to your rooms," she said.

It was on the tip of his tongue to snap that he knew very well how to get to the Slytherin dormitory, but then he realized he'd never seen any of the professors' quarters. Snape had always been so scarce as Head of House, and the other Slytherin professors even more so.

He looked at Hermione, her proud head high as if she were merely doing her duty to show him around the castle they'd both lived in for seven years. A strange desperate expression flitted across her face before she could stop it, her calm exterior dropping briefly.

He stood aside to let her pass.

He was surprised when she simply led him to the Potions dungeon. In Snape's -- in _his_ \-- office there was yet another newly visible door. Hermione used her wand to unlock it, then a second one at the end of a short corridor. "Here we are," she said.

There was stone, of course. Draperies in Slytherin green and black. Shelves full of musty old tomes, others stacked with what appeared to be a private store of equipment and ingredients, all carefully labeled. Hermione lit the fireplace and a few lamps, revealing the extent of the rooms. They were spacious enough: a sitting room, a bedchamber, and a bath. Somewhat smaller than his suite at Malfoy Manor, but familiar enough in utility.

"There's your schedule," Hermione said, gesturing toward a parchment hovering over a table. "Follow the instructions to set your own passwords to the door. Most of the supplies and books here were Snape's -- feel free to make them your own. Though I'd be careful if I were you. We went through the rooms trying to disarm all of the protective charms and hexes, but he was rather good at them. No telling what we might have missed."

"Wonderful of you to inform me now," Draco drawled.

Hermione hesitated. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Yes, thanks." He felt a swell of relief as she turned to go -- but then, at the door, she stopped and squared her shoulders.

Quietly, she said, "You were with Ron when he died."

Well, he had known it was coming. "Yes."

She didn't turn around. "I know he didn't suffer," she said, "the Killing Curse is instantaneous, and I suppose your father was particularly efficient about it. But what I want to know is -- if he -- if before he died, you know, when you were with him -- what was it like?"

He stared at her back. What was it like? How could he describe it, the memories scattered inside of him like shards of glass: Weasley's long bony body shivering against his for warmth, the sound of water dripping somewhere high and inaccessible as they lay together on the stony, filthy floor. In between each maddening _plink!_ Weasley's breath had come shallow and whistling, feather brushes against Draco's skin.

She turned, and he flinched at the sight of her face, her eyes burning and her cheeks flushed. "Look, I didn't want you here," she said. "I told McGonagall so. But you are, so I'll live with it. But you have to _tell_ me something. Tell me what it was like."

Draco focused his gaze on the nearest bookshelf, trying to make out faded titles on cracked spines. "There's a lot of it I can't recall."

"You mean you've forgotten it already?" His eyes snapped back to her -- she had sounded just like his father. "I shouldn't be surprised you find this all so unimportant."

"Hardly," he bit out. "It's not the sort of stuff one _wants_ to remember."

"Then perhaps I'll _make_ you," she said softly.

He gave her a long, level look. "You'd regret it if you did."

"If you can't recall any of it, how would you know?" She turned her back on him and went out into the passageway, her shoes clicking on the cold stone. The door at the far end thundered shut behind her and sent the firelight in the hearth flickering.

Draco lowered himself to the small couch and closed his eyes.

*

2.

Records of the second war stated it had officially begun the night Voldemort attacked the Ministry, and ended at his death. After the dust settled Hermione had found herself labeled, by various knowledgeable parties, as the best living authoritative source on all related events outside of Harry Potter himself. In the years following Voldemort's defeat, every publisher, author and editor considered a positive review from her as good as gold.

To Hermione, though, the real history of the war wasn't in books.

She had a note from Ron, scrawled on the back of a Divination essay, faded and crumbling at the edges. "Leaving tomorrow morning. Don't know if you'll ever get this, don't know if I'll be able to say this when I see you...."

Another from Harry. "Dear Hermione, I know you're worried about the end of the world, but don't be. I'm taking care of it."

She had a postcard from her parents, punctured by owl talons; somehow in their ignorance of wizarding events it had reached her through the battle lines. She had a sheaf of notes on prophecies and curses and blood bonds. A coded message from Dumbledore calling her back to Hogwarts. A list of questions for her testimony before the Ministry.

She had memories.

The night before their seventh year, when Dumbledore discovered the planned attack on the train and they had all scattered to the four winds. Ron hugged her fiercely in front of her parents' fireplace, all thin rangy muscle, smelling of ash and smoke and the wonderful homey scents of the Burrow. "I -- I --" he'd stuttered, and she'd stopped him from speaking with a kiss, saying, "I know," because hadn't she always back then? She kissed him again; from the awkwardness of his lips she could tell it was his first. And why, why had they left it so late? Having him in her arms it had almost hurt _more_ , more than it did a few moments later when he had Floo'd off and she was standing alone in an empty house.

It was the last time she ever saw him.

Hermione sped away from Draco's quarters, following the professors' passageways back to her own. She had been assigned patrol duty after the feast, especially important given it was the first night of the term. But McGonagall could hang for all Hermione cared about skulking through the castle for underage miscreants.

She made straight for the fireplace as soon as she arrived at her rooms. Throwing a handful of Floo powder into the flames, Hermione shouted, "Harry Potter!"

A good ten minutes of fruitless waiting passed before she finally gave it up and went to bed. She supposed she ought to have known Harry wouldn't be available. These days she doubted his own mirror ever caught a glimpse of him.

That night she grappled with sleep and woke the next morning puffy-eyed and groggy. She pulled herself together as well as possible, taking chocolate with her breakfast, and tried to avoid Stutts' curious glances.

Not so easy to escape McGonagall, though, who intercepted Hermione just as she was leaving the Great Hall. "You look peaked, my dear."

"It's nothing of concern, Headmistress. I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night. Nerves about the first day of classes."

"Among other things, perhaps." McGonagall's voice was mild. "I will reiterate that I understand how difficult the situation must be for you. But I trust in your ability to adapt."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.

"People change, Hermione."

"Certainly everyone believes he has."

"I wasn't only referring to Draco Malfoy," McGonagall said gently. "I know this isn't the life you envisioned for yourself."

They were standing in the professors' entry to the Great Hall. Hermione glanced at the main doorway where students were passing in and out. Just then Draco appeared on the threshold, caught in the moving tide. She realized he must have forgotten which corridor to take.

What life had she envisioned? Had she known at age eleven, thirteen, fifteen, how young she was? How little she really understood of the workings of the world, how easily circumstances -- and, yes, people -- changed? Perhaps Hogwarts professor had not been high on her list of dreams, but it was difficult to remember, these days, what had been.

She thought of a Christmas morning, had it been her sixth year? She and Harry and Ron were in the Gryffindor common room, the fire roaring while they happily unwrapped their gifts, and she had been sure, then -- of exactly what she didn't know, but all the same, sure. Sure of _something_ , that something was right in her life, and good.

"I'll be fine, Headmistress," Hermione said finally. "I'll be fine."

Classes consumed most of her day, but her students were well behaved, star-struck by her wartime celebrity. Still, by the time she went to dinner she wanted nothing more than to grab a quick morsel and go straight to her rooms.

The sight of the professors' table drew her up short. Draco and Stutts were sitting together again, Draco nodding as Stutts gestured enthusiastically.

She hovered on the threshold. It wasn't that she cared to sit by Stutts, of course -- he could give her students a run for their money when it came to hero worship -- or even that she cared how the other professors interacted with Draco. But the juxtaposition of that strange, pale-haired head next to the familiar dark-haired one gave her pause.

Another memory came to her: Harry sitting next to Draco's cot in the infirmary. In the dead of winter Snape had brought her back to Hogwarts, her and Harry -- but when they got there Ron was missing, and there was only Draco to explain why. Harry had gone in to see him first, and she had watched from the doorway as he leaned forward to listen, as Draco whispered and clutched Harry's forearm with a pale, skinny hand.

Hermione chose another seat.

Voices of students and professors surrounded her, familiar and communal, though she had no part in them. That had been one of the most difficult things to get used to during her first year teaching -- the lack of entry into any sort of relationship, the solitude even in the midst of a crowd. Certainly she had cultivated professional bonds with the other staff members, and Stutts was constantly attempting to pull her out of retreat, but she could never seem to get comfortable enough. Something was always missing.

Finishing her dinner, Hermione rose and went to her rooms. Draco stiffened as she passed his chair, but didn't look around.

She tried Harry again by Floo. Still no answer.

That night she dreamed of Hogwarts in the days immediately following the final battle. It was mostly deserted, much of it lying in ruin. None of the passageways and corridors went where they were supposed to go. She followed a series of staircases higher and higher, until it seemed she had been climbing forever, and woke in a start before she could reach the top.

*

At the end of the first week McGonagall called a staff meeting.

Hermione sat patiently through the discussion of supplies and discipline sanctions. Normally she found meetings like this at least somewhat interesting -- as a prefect she had enjoyed the responsibility of contributing to Hogwarts operations, but the war had deprived her of a normal seventh year, so that she had never assumed the role of Head Girl as expected.

This time, she simply wished it would end. She was acutely conscious of Draco lounging in an armchair less than a meter away, pale and pointy-faced, his entire body an arrow directed elsewhere, casually ignoring her. She found it infuriating. She wanted to march across the room and peel that arrogant face from his skull, dig her fingernails into what lay underneath.

Draco's voice saying her name drew her attention: "-- what Professor Granger said."

She sat up, casting back through half-heard remnants of the discussion. Snape's protective spells. He was telling them what she'd said about Snape's protective spells.

McGonagall peered over her spectacles at Hermione, then looked at Draco. "Hermione and Stutts were really quite thorough," she said. "I think you can trust in their wandwork."

"I would." Draco shifted in his seat. "But I have some experience with these matters. I'd prefer to go over the rooms myself. Except, as I said, it's dangerous to try to remove hexes alone."

"Fine," McGonagall said. "Hermione?"

Hermione's cheeks burned. "I'm really rather busy at the moment, Headmistress. Perhaps Stutts would do better working with Malfoy."

"You're the Charms and Defense professor." McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Please make the time."

Hermione pressed her lips together and nodded. As McGonagall moved on to other new business, she glared at Draco. His grey eyes regarded her calmly in return.

While all the other staff dispersed at the meeting's end, Stutts casting her a look that was part sympathy, part envy, Draco stood waiting for her at the door.

"Did you engineer that on purpose?" she demanded.

"Sorry." He shrugged. "But I'd like to be able to do magic in my own quarters without fear of hexing myself."

"Don't give me apologies," Hermione retorted. "Your quarters ought to be _fine_."

"You yourself said --"

"I know what I said." She brushed her hair from her face. "Why did you come here?"

"McGonagall called a meeting."

"You know what I mean. Why did you come to _Hogwarts_? What's your _motive_?"

"I grew tired of staying at home," he said flatly.

"It can't have been for money. I suspect you're laughing at all of us, playing the wounded war hero, but don't think you've pulled the wool over _my_ eyes."

"I've never claimed to be anything other than what I am."

"Which is?"

"Draco Malfoy." His voice was cool. "And you should never discount the pull of money."

She stared. "But a professor's salary must be a pittance to you."

"The Ministry, it seems, keeps unearthing offenses of my father's to charge against the Malfoy name, fines he didn't anticipate when he spent most of the family fortune in support of Lord Voldemort." He bared his teeth in a half-smile, half-sneer. "Now, if you have a point, Granger, please find it."

"I don't trust you."

"McGonagall seems to. As did Dumbledore."

She shook her head. "There was a time I trusted Dumbledore's judgment above all others. No more."

"Potter trusted me," Draco said quietly.

"Only after you killed your own father. Though that wasn't for the war, was it? That was personal."

"Yes, it was." The color had blanched out of his face, so that he had paled to a sickly white. "Tomorrow's Saturday. We'll begin going over my rooms after breakfast." His expression was completely closed: conversation over.

"Fine," she snapped.

*

The Potions dungeon was sorely lacking in windows and proper circulation. Snape had explained to her once, in his usual begrudging way, that even sunlight and fresh air could affect the brewing process. It was necessary for the dungeon to be as controlled an area as possible. That didn't, of course, explain why Snape's _quarters_ lacked such comforts, but at the time Hermione had still been too uncertain around him to ask.

That had been just before the end of her seventh year -- of what would have been her seventh year -- when Dumbledore had set her to assisting Snape with the blood bond titration. She had been with Snape when the news came that Dumbledore had finally fallen. The dungeon that day was boiling with the first flush of pre-summer heat, and she had wept messy, sobbing tears, not caring that Snape could see.

She shivered as she entered on Saturday morning. Draco had been missing in the Great Hall for breakfast, and now she saw why. He was working on a potion. He bent over a book as the mixture bubbled noxious and green, his finger tracking his progress down the page.

"One moment," he said when she cleared her throat. He turned, picked up a jar of something powdery, and sprinkled a bit of it into the cauldron. With his wand he swirled the concoction once clockwise, and once counter-clockwise.

Draco's movements were careful, lacking the grace and surety she remembered of Snape. He looked, she thought, like someone following directions rather than someone who really knew what he was doing. She waited as Draco ladled the potion into a mug, saluted her with it gravely, and gulped it down.

He grimaced. "Bloody hell, why can't these damned things ever taste good?"

She was loathe to engage in small talk, but asked anyway, "What is it?"

"Pain reliever." He busied himself cleaning up the work area. "Found the recipe in Snape's collection."

As she didn't know what to say to that, she said nothing.

Finally the dungeon was immaculate again, and he motioned her to his quarters, muttering a password she couldn't hear.

He had done virtually nothing to the rooms. A few books had been taken from the shelves and lay opened on tables, but as far as she could tell he had added none of his own possessions. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember if he had even brought a trunk or a suitcase with him.

"Begin with the shelves and cabinets?" she suggested.

"Agreed."

She found it vaguely disturbing to be going over Snape's former living quarters this way, even though she had done it once before with Stutts. As a student, and later a comrade, she had always been intensely curious about Snape, wondering what he did outside of his capacity as a professor, about the space he retreated to at the end of the day. As an adult looking back, she supposed that fascination with the personal side of the man had been something akin to a crush. It seemed somehow cheap to finally get that curiosity satisfied without him present.

Hermione thought she knew how to deal with hexes, but she quickly realized Draco's knowledge was superior. He had a large vocabulary base, and improvised on the foundation spells with a fast fluency. She found herself watching in fascination as he tackled likely locations around the rooms, muttering rapid-fire variations on a series of basic hex detectors. By the end of the afternoon he'd found two hexes, one lodged inside the fireplace -- "Nasty for anyone attempting to Floo in." "Damned obvious," Hermione muttered, irritated at herself. -- and one guarding a hidden recess in one of the bookshelves.

The recess was empty. Hermione nodded. "He knew he wouldn't be coming back from that last mission. I heard from McGonagall he left behind almost no personal effects at all."

Silent, Draco closed the panel and replaced the books that had stood in front of it.

As he went over the nightstand table next to his bed, his wand flashed green. Draco nodded. "This one's not actually a hex," he said. "Though possibly it explains why I haven't had any dreams since arriving here."

"How do you know so much about this?" she asked. "I didn't think you were more than mediocre at arithmancy."

"Magic like this isn't learned from _books_." That familiar sneer peeked around the corners of his mouth.

"All right then," she challenged, "where? Death Eater drill school?"

"I had no need of Death Eater drill school. My own home was one, as you may recall."

"I'm surprised you didn't make more use of your knowledge at Hogwarts. You could have been formidable, instead of merely the occasional nuisance."

"Why Granger, is that meant to be an insult?" His coolly raised eyebrow made her blush. "Don't you think I did enough in the end?"

She suppressed a shiver, turning her back on him so he couldn't see her face. "I think we're done here," she said. "Feel free to fill the place up with hexes of your own devising."

Draco's reply was brusque: "I've nothing to hide."

She whipped around. "Then why can't you tell me about Ron?"

"Here's a question." His eyes glinted nastily. "Why so much devotion to a boy you knew as a _schoolgirl_? Is it because you can't stand you never got a chance to marry your Gryffindor sweetheart and squeeze out a passel of addle-brained red-haired half-mudbloods --"

She struck him. She struck him again for good measure, right across the mouth, his words cutting off with an "oomf!" that was deeply satisfying. "Shut up," she panted. "Shut up. You _fucking_ bastard."

He put a hand to his lip. She'd drawn blood, bright red against his skin. "You've got better at that," he said.

"And you haven't changed at all." Disgust and fury rose in her like a storm of filth. She left him there still bleeding from the mouth.

Her first instinct was to run to her rooms, but as she climbed the stairs out of the nether regions of the castle she saw the sunset just beginning through a window. Drawn to the sight, Hermione went out onto the grounds and made her way to the lake. By the time she reached the water the sunset was nothing but an incomprehensible blur of orange and purple through her tears.

She didn't return to the castle until the stars twinkled clear and unmistakable.

Closeted again in her rooms, the fire silent, Hermione paced the floor. Her thoughts were violent: she saw herself dashing Draco's skull to the stone, splitting open that pale, fair head. She saw Ron emerging from the mess like a bloody version of Pallas Athena -- alive and warm in her arms.

A book on the shelf caught her eye: _Practical Applications of Occlumency and Legilimency_. Her hand reached out, took it down, flipped to the inscription on the flyleaf.

"Harry,

All the sources say this book is quite good. I thought it might be helpful as a supplement to your continued lessons.

Hermione"

The language of the note was tentative, the strokes of her handwriting uncertain -- things between them had been rather prickly fifth year. The book's cover was worn at the edges, but she knew that was only due to being moved from trunk to trunk, shelf to shelf. Harry had never really used it, and eventually it had come back to her possession. She had read the book, of course, but she had _only_ read it.

Hermione sank to the rug in front of the hearth with the book on her knee, turning the pages slowly and carefully.

*

3.

Still bleeding, Draco waited until all of the doors had slammed behind her, then went down the short corridor to Snape's office. It was virtually unchanged. A large dark-wooded desk squatted in the center, and two towering cabinets stocked with potions ingredients joined at right angles in the corner. He went up to one of them and whispered, " _Salvus_."

Nothing happened. Of course, he nodded to himself. There was nothing to hide in them now.

In his head Weasley demanded, "Why couldn't you leave well enough alone, Malfoy?"

And his own retort: "I'm sure you've noticed we're at _war_."

"Stupid insults in the schoolyard don't make a war."

Oh, but hadn't they? Thick as thieves, the three of them had been, Weasley and Granger and Potter. Even when they fought you could see they were still three parts of a braid, inseparable and indivisible. And Potter -- always the center of attention. Even those students who had never spoken to him couldn't help but be aware of his presence, like water parting around a rock. His absence the autumn of their seventh year -- _their_ absences -- had been very nearly tangible.

Draco had found himself scanning the crowds constantly, in classes and in the corridors and at meals, looking for red or bushy hair, for glasses beneath a lightning scar. At night he stole out in his invisibility cloak, searching the empty classrooms with nerves wound high, half-fancying he'd run into a similarly cloaked Potter just around each corner.

Once he dreamed of reaching into the flue of the Slytherin hearth and pulling Weasley out by his hair, down onto the flames.

"Where's your brother?" he had demanded of Ginny Weasley, and she had looked at him with cool unconcerned eyes and replied, "Nowhere you'll ever reach him."

Fruitless weeks passed. A month, two months. His father had requested owl reports every other day, but the truth was, there was nothing to report. The trio's disappearance was the major subject of discussion around the school, and rumors certainly abounded, but Draco knew better than to proffer those.

He wrote to his father, "My endeavors and inquiries have revealed little, but I remain confident that the truth is near at hand."

Then, on the first of December, a black raven found Draco by the lake and dropped a parchment at his feet. On it was a single word, scrawled in familiar handwriting and creased by the fold of the paper, which burst into ash as soon as he read it.

A name: "Snape."

For some weeks Draco almost thought he'd dreamed the message, almost wondered if he had misunderstood it. How could their Head of House, a Death Eater Draco had fully expected would be facilitating his own induction into the ranks, be hiding anything about the missing Gryffindors? He watched Snape carefully, but the Potions master was a closed book, revealing not even a flicker of the eye as he passed Dumbledore at the professors' table.

So he had spied on Snape, wrapped in the invisibility cloak, trailing him through the shadows. Eventually he overheard the password to his office, and later snuck in to wait. Invisible, Draco had pressed himself into the far corner of the office from Snape's desk, just between the two large cabinets, trying to fade into the walls.

Snape entered and made straight for the cabinet on Draco's left, muttering another password: " _Salvus_." A hidden drawer slid out of the smooth aged wood, revealing a tray of odd mismatched objects: a broken quill, a bent spoon, a rusty nail.

Portkeys. Draco's breath went shallow. Three of them.

Snape picked up the nail with his gloved hand, shut the drawer, then touched an ungloved finger to the rusty head. Both Snape and nail promptly disappeared.

Draco forced himself to wait. He counted ten minutes in his head, heart thumping wildly. When Snape still hadn't returned, he stepped forward and faced the cabinet. " _Salvus_ ," he whispered hoarsely. The drawer slid open.

Draco studied the remaining two portkeys. There was no indication where they would go, who they might take him to see, but they pulled him like an insistent hand. There was something about them, something promising answers and discoveries. He caught his watery reflection in the bowl of the spoon, and before he could stop himself, reached out to pick it up.

*

He opened his eyes and found that he was in a forest. Trees loomed dark and menacing overhead, and it was cold, much colder than it had been at Hogwarts. Shivering, Draco turned and studied the stars through the gaps in the branches. His feet crunched a light dust of snow.

Pocketing the portkey, pulling out his wand, Draco muttered, " _Lumos_."

There was a tiny shack a few yards away, nestled in scrubs and brush. Remembering his father's training, he unfocused his eyes until he could see the wards shimmering at the edge of his vision, until he could look past the falling shingles, the cracked dark windows.

He thought the protective spells might be tripped by his presence, which meant the element of surprise would be lost to him. Suddenly he hoped he _hadn't_ got Potter. He honestly didn't know how a wand-to-wand duel would come out.

He crept closer, the invisibility cloak trailing in the snow. From the outside it looked as though the shack couldn't contain more than a room or two, but he knew too well the illusions magic could weave. There was nothing for it, now he was here, except to go on.

The wards raised goosebumps along his skin as he passed through them. At his touch the front door opened easily, and Draco extinguished his wand and stepped over the threshold, plunging into blackness.

The floor slanted beneath his feet. He followed it down, further into the shack, holding his wand at the ready. In the stillness and the quiet, the thunder of his heartbeat rose and seemed to fill his head.

Bare feet slapped against the floor behind him. An arm snaked around his neck before he could turn; another knocked his wand out of his hand.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Ron Weasley demanded, his voice hot and loud in Draco's ear.

Strength surged through Draco. He brought his elbow back hard, into Weasley's gut, heard him grunt. The grip at his throat loosened. Draco ducked and dove in the direction he thought his wand had gone.

His hands skittered over the cold floorboards, finding nothing. He sensed Weasley charging forward again and rolled out of the way, but the other boy covered the distance in a mere second, tackling Draco and knocking his head against the wood. A long hand wrapped around Draco's throat. He could hear Weasley panting above him, harsh and panicked, could smell his fear-sweat like a blade in the air.

Quickly, before Weasley could aim his wand again, Draco reached up with fingers hooked like claws. He locked his hand around Weasley's fingers, trying to keep the wand pointed toward the ceiling.

" _Lumos_!" Weasley shouted. Light blazed in the darkness, smashing against Draco's eyes. He shut them tightly, heard Weasley gasp, "Malfoy?"

Draco heaved upward, trying to regain his feet, sliding his fingers up to grasp the end of the wand. He tried to wrench it out of Weasley's hand, but somehow Weasley got a foot around Draco's ankle, tripping him up, and then they were both falling again to the floor, Weasley on top of him --

He felt his hip crack like ice beneath a chisel, and between them Weasley's wand snapped, splinters driving into his palm. Weasley pinned his long body against Draco's and struck him across the face, over and over.

Pain screamed from the break in Draco's hip. He shrank away from it, sinking into darkness, only distantly registering the blows.

Finally he became conscious of Weasley standing, withdrawing, coming back with Draco's wand.

" _Leviosa_!"

He felt himself lift into the air as Weasley transported him further into the house, down some stairs. He hit the ground shoulders first and blacked out fully for a moment, then came awake again at a flash of heat in his hip.

"If you move I'll kill you."

Draco blinked. A ceiling of stone swam into focus. Dirt caked in the cracks. A dim room with a feeling of being underground, and more dirt underneath him where he lay.

Weasley's face moved into his vision, also streaked with dirt. "If you move," he repeated, "I'll kill you." He held up Draco's wand.

Draco swallowed with some effort. "You wouldn't know how."

"Try me, Malfoy. We both took the same Defense classes." Weasley swept the wand through the air, making red sparks fly from the end. "Now what are you doing here?"

"Was concerned about you missing classes. Thought I might let you copy my notes."

Weasley drew back his foot and kicked Draco in the side. Pain ripped a shout from Draco as his stomach crumpled like parchment, his hip twisting and grinding in the joint.

"Bloody hell," he cried, "what did you do to me?"

"Would you rather I left it broken?"

"I can't tell the difference! Don't tell me you used my wand to heal it." Draco shifted his weight off the hip, hissing as the movement wrenched his leg. The ground beneath him felt frozen solid, giving back nothing but hardness and cold and aching.

"I did," Weasley said. "So blame that, not the spell caster. Now tell me why you're here."

"I didn't mean to be," Draco ground out. "I was attempting to get to Potter."

Weasley's mouth twisted. "And look where that freakish obsession's got you now. Really, Malfoy, you ought to've spent the summer finding yourself a girlfriend."

"Yeah?" Draco glared around the dank, dim cellar. "Looks like you spent yours climbing the economic ladder. I'm quite happy for you, Weasley. This place must be a real step up from your former pigsty."

Casually, Weasley reached out and struck him across the mouth. Fire blossomed from Draco's lip -- he knew it must be split. "Careful," Weasley said, as Draco brushed blood from his face. "You can't take points for fighting here. Now talk. What's happening at school?"

Draco spat, glaring. "Everything there's fine."

"How did you get here?"

"Stole one of Snape's portkeys." Draco stopped, realizing for the first time what he had gotten himself into. "Not that it matters -- as soon as he notices it's gone he'll alert Dumbledore."

But Weasley's face had gone pale. "Malfoy, you _shit_. The portkey's the only way to get here!"

"What?"

"You can't get here unless you've got the right one."

"Not even Dumbledore?"

"It was his idea. The portkeys're in case something ever happened to Snape -- he's the secret keeper." Weasley stood and paced. "Fucking _hell_ , Malfoy."

"What a bloody stupid idea," Draco sniffed. "Trust that senile old codger to --"

"Shut up." Weasley pivoted in mid-step went to each of the cellar's four corners in turn, waving Draco's wand at the cobwebs and dust. "Fuck," he muttered. "You've tripped the wards -- they're only meant for me and Snape --" Quickly he muttered a series of protective spells, and the corners of the cellar glowed a weak yellow. Weasley tilted his head back and inspected the ceiling. "Your bloody fucking useless wand only let me cover the cellar. Damn it all to _hell_."

"Wait," Draco said, still processing what he'd been told. "Do you mean to tell me that no one can follow me here?"

Weasley spun on his heel. "It's a _safehouse_ , you puffed-up wanker. It's not _meant_ for just any idiot to stumble in."

Draco refrained from commenting on the system's efficacy, given the idiot in question. Instead he hammered on, "Snape had the only portkey here?"

"And the only portkey back," Weasley said after a pause.

"So we're stuck here."

"Thanks to you!" Weasley snapped.

"So what do we do?"

"We wait until Snape or Dumbledore comes up with a plan to rescue us." Weasley's eyes flashed and he brandished Draco's wand again. "And in the meantime, if you try to do anything, Malfoy, if you try to escape -- if you try to so much as _stand_ without my permission, I'll hex you into the rectum of a cockroach. Have you got that?"

Draco met his glare straight on, seething. "Then you'd better not give me any opportunities."

*

On Sunday Draco woke feeling ragged and dream-battered. He skipped breakfast and tried to recast Snape's dream warding spell. The structure must have been rigged to deteriorate once detected, Draco thought -- it was an old trick of Voldemort's. He spent most of the day tinkering unsuccessfully with the spell and re-brewing the pain reliever potion, stopping only for a brief visit from Stutts.

"How'd it go with Hermione yesterday?" the other wizard asked. "She's been remarkably close-mouthed, even for her."

Draco pocketed his wand. "If you're in search of gossip, I hear there's a knitting circle among the female students. A Muggle activity like that ought to interest you."

Stutts grinned cheerfully. "My real purpose in stopping by is to apologize for not having been as thorough as possible with the rooms. Hexes aren't my forte."

"How many did you and Granger find?"

"Seventeen." Stutts sat on the end of the bed, blithely ignoring Draco's raised eyebrow. "Mostly her doing. She got quite a bit of practice during the war."

A thought occurred to Draco. "You've never said what you did back then."

"Quite a lot of nothing. I was at university -- Oxford -- getting a Muggle degree. Appallingly easy to immerse oneself in their world, don't you know."

"You hid?"

"Like a badger in a hole." Stutts peered through his spectacles, the grin fading somewhat. "You knew Ron Weasley, didn't you? Before your father -- before he, well, you know."

Draco felt the landscape of his memory, shoddy to begin with, threatening to slip out from beneath him. He kept his voice light. "What, before my father killed him? As it's public knowledge, you needn't tiptoe around it. But to answer your question, yes, Weasley and I were classmates at Hogwarts."

"What was he like?"

Merlin's ghost, what was with all of the Weasley idolatry? "Don't look to me for a balanced account," Draco said. "Most of our encounters were hostile, as I was dead set on being a Death Eater when I grew up."

"So what made you change sides?"

The landscape shifted and he saw his father's face, pinched into a sneer as the Death Eaters pulled Draco to his feet. Ron stood tied to the wall in a full body bind, his face pale with fear.

Draco shook his head, clearing the memory. "Woke up and realized I was on the wrong one."

"Just like that?" Stutts pressed.

"Just like that."

*

He skipped dinner as well. Thanks to Granger, one had to politely _ask_ the house elves for service in one's quarters now, but personalized meals reminded him of home, those long quiet months with only a few house elves for company. And it was certainly preferable to being in the Great Hall.

During the week he avoided her -- tried to, anyway. The castle was vast and full of hiding places, but its population was small, the inhabitants separated by no more than a degree. He ate his meals earlier and later than the crowds, if not holed up in his rooms, but always he seemed to catch a glimpse of her coming or going, or caught her name in a nearby conversation. Had he really once thought she was missing from the castle? She was everywhere, a part of the very fabric of the school. He felt like a trespasser in her territory.

He supposed that was how she saw him as well. How different it was from their years as students, when he had thought of the school as strung between two poles of equal height: Potter and himself.

At least he could immerse himself in classes for most of the day. He'd found teaching to be easy enough. At the beginning of the hour he demonstrated a textbook brewing, and the rest of the time he supervised the students' attempts to mimic the result. The most difficult thing about it was limping round the room all day.

It wasn't Snape-caliber instruction, but he doubted McGonagall had been expecting that. Despite his pedigree Draco had never been the superstar potions brewer of his year -- that distinction, like most others, had gone to Granger.

His thoughts about Slytherin tolerance for his presence had proven correct. Even the current generation at Hogwarts, properly Sorted or no, shared the attitudes of their parents. A group of them went about together constantly, like their own little sub-House, watching Draco closely, insolently, cold eyes observing the smallest actions to report back home.

They made his skin crawl, these students. These different students, who had never skittered out of the way when he and Crabbe and Goyle strode through the halls, had never looked at him in fear and wonder when a new Death Eater attack hit the headlines. These were students on the other side of a war he still wasn't sure if he'd won or lost.

On Thursday McGonagall sent him a note inquiring whether he had settled enough to grant her a private audience. Unwilling to face the consequences of ignoring the not-so-subtle summons, Draco found himself sitting before her desk the next morning.

Under McGonagall's occupation the Head of Hogwarts' office was almost a different place entirely from what he remembered as a student. Dumbledore's clutter of knickknacks and gadgets had been replaced by McGonagall's clean, ordered lines, and the character of the suite had the same no-nonsense, no-frills demeanor of the Headmistress. The only things that had remained unchanged were the books, stretching floor to ceiling.

"From what I hear you have them racing through the Potions text," McGonagall said.

"Thankfully there aren't any Longbottoms among my students."

She pursed her lips but didn't censor him. "And how are they behaviorally?"

He debated whether to let it go, but finally confessed, "I'll have to go over the dungeon more carefully, but I believe my stock of ingredients has been tampered with on occasion. I suspect Whipple and Arnold -- bloody Slytherins."

"Those two are Hufflepuffs."

Draco shook his head. "They'll never be anything but Slytherins."

"And how do you know it was their doing?"

"It's just the sort of underhanded maleficence that house has been cultivating since the school's founding. You ought to expel the lot."

"Hogwarts has a longstanding tradition of withholding punishment without proof."

"Even the first years wouldn't be so stupid as to leave proof," he scoffed.

"So be it." Her voice sharpened. "Relations with the Slytherins are strained enough as it is. Be careful, Mr. Malfoy. I won't have those parents calling for your removal."

"Why?" He sneered. "Because you think you'd lose face with them?"

"Because I once promised Professor Dumbledore I would give you a chance."

Unexpected, that she would simply say it out loud like that. That was another difference between McGonagall and the Headmaster, who had hidden things from people even when he seemed to be revealing everything. McGonagall, far more of a Gryffindor, had no skill or use for such subterfuge.

"I needed a job," Draco said, "not charity."

"Idiot boy," McGonagall snapped. "If it were merely charity I'd have had you teaching Divination."

Draco glared at her. "In that case, then, you have my abject gratitude for allowing me the opportunity to show my real worth to the world."

"That sort of sarcasm is beneath you -- or it ought to be. Whatever my reasons, you are a Hogwarts professor, and we do not judge without merit, teachers as well as students, present and former."

He choked the words he wanted to say. "Are we done, Headmistress?"

"Yes." Then she shook her head and said, her voice softer, "We both assumed this position would be the safest transition for your return to the world. But remember, Malfoy: transition, by definition, doesn't happen all at once."

He nearly bowled Hermione over as he shot out of the bottom of the spiral staircase where she was waiting. She stumbled back against the wall, whipping out her wand.

Draco stopped and raised an eyebrow at her. "You ought to relax, Granger. You might rupture something."

She didn't lower her wand. "What were you doing with McGonagall, Malfoy?"

"Put her under the Imperius Curse and made her give me a raise," he retorted. "Translation: none of your business."

"How's your lip?" she asked sweetly, her eyes narrowing. "I see you've finally learned a healing spell or two."

He managed not to flinch. "About time to curb those violent impulses, Granger," he snapped. "The war's over."

"So you say." Pocketing her wand, she stepped onto the staircase and let it carry her up to McGonagall's office.

*

He dreamed. He dreamed of winter in the cellar of the safehouse, embracing the ground for warmth while cold knocked around his ribs, racking him with shivers. With the wards covering only the cellar they were both trapped underground, as it risked detection to go outside of them.

The only source of heat inside the four stone walls was the tiny fire Weasley had conjured in the center. He hunched and shuddered beside it, Draco's wand propped on his knee. His eyes looked sunken, his cheeks hollow and fuzzed with growth. His normally bright hair was stringy and unkempt.

"I'm cold," Draco said through chattering teeth. He had refused to sit by the fire. "And my hip still hurts. I may never walk again, you ignorant squib."

"Shut up," Weasley muttered. "You're lucky I healed you at all."

"Call that healing!"

"It's your own fault anyway. Why couldn't you leave well enough alone, Malfoy?"

"I'm sure you've noticed we're at _war_."

"Stupid insults in the schoolyard don't make a war," Ron said.

"Oh, and suddenly you know all about it, then."

"It was your miserable excuse for brains that got us into this, remember?"

Hours passed. At one point Ron slid along the stone floor, too tired to stand, bringing the fire with him. He settled next to Draco so that their shoulders pressed together. Bone mashed against bone, and it was almost painful, Ron was so skinny, but Draco sucked in his warmth like a Dementor and didn't complain.

He drifted, dreaming within the dream. Saw himself with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, screamed as it became the Dark Mark and the Great Hall laughed, laughed, laughed.

When he woke he lashed out with his fists. Beside him, Ron swatted away the blows -- "Bloody hell, Malfoy, wake up!" -- and Draco saw the ineffectual fire still flickering, knew Ron hadn't slept at all.

"Is it morning?" he asked, subsiding. He touched the cuts on his face, the bruise at his throat, as if he might find Ron's arm still clamped tight around it.

"Almost," Ron said. "It'll be a few hours yet."

*

4.

She heard the familiar voice calling her name. Quickly, she shut the door behind her and hurried to the fireplace, scattering books to the rug, nearly cracking her knee on the stone.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "Where have you been?"

The flames crackled as he shook his head. "Sorry, I needed some time away. I only just got in -- it's not too late, is it?"

She studied him. She'd known his face since childhood, one of a beloved two, known it in all expressions and moods, almost better than her own sometimes. But in the years since the war it was as if his face had become reluctant to allow such knowing, as if it were a map that had been redrawn in a foreign language. She wasn't even sure if she was happy to see him.

"No, not too late," she said. "Did you have a good trip, at least?"

"Yeah, not bad. Anyhow, the Floo Network says you've tried to call?"

She hesitated. "It's...McGonagall's hired Draco Malfoy."

"Makes sense," Harry said. "His name's still too prominent to stash away in that godforsaken house."

"It's been difficult having him here," she said slowly. "I still don't know everything about what happened with Ron."

Harry's carefully casual expression didn't flicker. "He'll likely be there for some time, given the politics at stake --"

"I've tried talking to him about it," Hermione persisted, "but he's so close-mouthed -- still as rude as ever --"

"-- although I wonder how much influence he could possibly have over all of those Voldemorts in training --"

"-- when I know if it weren't for him Ron would still be --"

Harry's voice changed. "Hermione, don't."

"What?"

"Don't bother Malfoy."

"Since when do you --" She drew herself up. "I'm trying to find out about Ron. I think Malfoy could stand to be bothered."

"He's not a research project."

"Nor am I treating him like one -- don't get flip with me about this."

"On the contrary, I'm deadly serious." Harry leaned forward, his scar vivid white against the flames. "You've got your own war stories. You don't want his."

She shook her head. Her eyes were dry, burning with the heat from the fire and from her own long-banked anger. "You're one to talk about war stories. At least I'm not running from them."

"You don't know what I've had to forget."

"Not for lack of trying. But that's sort of a consequence of you running, isn't it? I don't get to know anything about you, you get to maintain your superior stoic hero attitude about my not knowing."

"Look, this is not about me. All I'm saying is, pestering Malfoy won't bring Ron back."

"That's not what I'm after! Damn you, Harry, you're _worse_ than Malfoy -- I thought you'd understand but it's like you've -- God, I knew it would be hard without Ron, but to be without you as well --"

"The past is past." And now she saw, could see into him again, could see he was raging underneath with the same fury as her own. He shouted at her, "Just go stamp a gold star on another book or something. Stop chasing ghosts."

"Funny," she shouted back, "I thought at least you and I were still alive."

The fire blinked out, leaving only a cold black space in the hearth.

*

It was like a poison in her, the anger, eating away anything that wasn't about Ron, about those missing months between the day he'd disappeared from her fireplace and the day she learned he was dead. The center of her was a missing person, a grasping question, an emptiness that had been left behind.

She ran through the dark corridors of the castle, followed the swooping shadows down into stone and bitterness, into the dungeons. As if in a dream she saw herself banging on Malfoy's door, pushing past him when he opened it. His pale face wasn't surprised at all, but looked like he had been waiting for her.

"Come for more violence?" he sneered, and she raised her wand and pointed it at him.

" _Legilimens_!" she cried, with all the force of her will.

She caught a brief, tantalizing glimpse of Ron -- so much younger than she remembered! -- lying on the floor of a dark stony room. His face was dirty and scratched, his eyes closed. He was falling asleep. She felt a surge of panicked triumph, didn't know if it was from herself because the Legilimency had worked, or if it was from the memory, from Draco.

She saw trees in a night sky, saw her own hand -- no, _Draco's_ hand -- raising a wand, heard a voice come out of her throat and cry, " _Morsmordre_!" And a green skull with a snake in its mouth covered the face of the moon.

A dark shape hurtled toward her out of the shadows and knocked her -- knocked _Draco_ \-- into the snow, the freezing crystals rasping against her cuts. She saw Ron lean down, pick up the wand and cry, " _Finite incantatem_!" and the sky went clear and moon-filled again.

Too late, though, too late, she -- Draco -- thought to herself, and the same panicked triumph swelled as Ron dragged her back into the house, down the stairs and threw her to the hard floor.

"Kill you --" Ron gasped, "kill you, you fucking --" and striking her across the face, grabbing her by the shoulders and the neck with those big hands, his long gangling body leaning into each blow, and she took each one without fighting, until finally he was too tired to hit and he simply fell on top of her, breath heaving, legs tangled -- and beneath him she thought it was almost -- it was almost like --

She pulled herself back, but it was too late, too late, it wasn't almost anymore, it _was_ , Ron thrusting full-bodied and frenzied against Draco, as if he wanted to obliterate Draco with sex. Draco pushed back, thrusting back, neither of them taking any care with the other, the floor cold and bruising underneath. It was dark and Ron's eyes were closed again, and Draco closed his own, clenching his teeth as his mangled hip screamed at the abuse, and when he finally came the blackness behind his eyelids contracted and exploded in circles of light. He gasped for breath, clutching Ron's bare hips and ribs beneath his clothes, exhausted and clean-scraped and raw, and then Ron thrust against him one last time and gasped, " _Herm_ \--" and Draco's eyes flew open in the dark.

His mind began to shut down like an implacable set of doors, forcing her out. She scrambled to maintain the hold, but it was no use.

"That's enough," Draco said, his voice like a sword through her head.

Spinning, Hermione caught herself on his shoulders, saw Ron's face mapped onto Draco's like an echo, and the years inside her crushed down into something hard and palpable. She leaned up and pushed her mouth against his.

His lips were already parted, drawing in breath, and when she touched his tongue with her own there was a sour, stale aftertaste of adrenaline. Hermione shut her eyes and kissed past him to the ghost inside, trying to conjure the memory back into herself. She cradled his skull in her hands and ran her fingers through hair that was all wrong, too silky and fine, the taste and shape of him against her body too unfamiliar, too much. She had never known Ron like this.

He let it happen, until finally she pulled away.

"I killed him," Draco said. His eyes were grey like the surrounding stone. "Not my father. Me."

Struck to the core, she stood there and waited for him to continue. The silence stretched and stretched, until finally she heard herself asking, "Why did you kill your father?"

"Because --" Draco stopped. "Because I didn't want to kill anyone else."

He dropped his eyes, and the change made him look thirteen years old again. She thought of him in third year, slinking away after she had struck him and threatened him with her wand. "Show me," she said.

At his nod she said, softly, " _Legilimen_."

In the memory it was morning. Death Eaters circled the room, the protective spells crumbled in the corners. Lucius Malfoy stood in the center of it all, tall and forbidding, his lip curled over his teeth.

They took Ron and lashed him to the wall with ropes of magic. His eyes were defiant, his knuckles stained with blood.

Draco heard himself stuttering, "Father, I captured Ron Weasley, one of Potter's friends."

"And allowed yourself to be captured in turn."

"He -- he injured me and stole my wand --"

"Silence, Draco." Lucius' voice was a whip of ice.

"But I -- I got away -- I conjured the Dark Mark for you --"

"Yes," Lucius said slowly. "You ought to be given some credit for that -- after we tie up this loose end." Lucius directed his cold gaze at Ron, and Draco heard Ron's breath go shallow with fear.

"Take him as a hostage," Draco babbled. "Potter will come out of hiding if he knows you've got R -- Weasley, he'll make a trade, he'll turn himself in to the Dark Lord --"

"No," Ron said, "no, shut up, Draco --"

Lucius' eyes narrowed, searching their faces. "Kill the Weasley whelp. And let my son watch." He paused. "No, better yet -- let my son do it himself."

Draco backed away, but the Death Eaters pushed him forward, a cage of black robes closing in. Someone put the wand in his hand and closed his fingers round it. He looked at their faces in turn, at his father's gaunt pitiless mask, his hard eyes, and he knew there was more than just Ron's death in the room.

"You have to mean the Unforgivable Curses," Draco heard his father saying, years ago, pacing his study while Draco stood respectfully to one side. "They require intent. They require _power_."

Draco looked at Ron, standing straight and tall in his bindings and ragged clothes as if barely aware of them. His expression was scornful as he surveyed the group of Death Eaters. His gaze settled on Draco, on the wand aimed at his chest, and his eyes were unafraid. "Go on, then," he said. "Got your war now, haven't you?"

Hatred flared in Draco. He drew on it, pulled it inward, stared at Weasley's freckled face and blood-stained hands, heard his father's voice cracking against him like a slap, countless times over, saw his father's eyes flicking away from him in disgust, Potter and Granger and Weasley leaving the Great Hall with their heads close together, his mother's thin hand writing to Fudge to protest the Aurors, the Dark Mark hovering in the sky, his father's voice intoning from the fire, _You are a Malfoy_.

He clasped the wand tighter, channeled the hatred, pushing it through to the tip, and half-shouted, half-sobbed, " _Avada kedavra_!"

And there was a flash of green light, and when it was over Ron dangled like a ragdoll from the wall, his red hair falling over his face.

Lucius' voice came from behind Draco. "Let us hope that the next time, you won't be so incompetent."

The Death Eaters followed him up the stairs, taking Draco with them.

*

When she returned to her rooms, Harry was there.

"I'm sorry," he said, rising from her armchair. "Hermione, I'm so sorry."

She looked up at him. "Say it again?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated. His face was opened to her, like a well-worn book. On it she could read everything she'd once known and been wanting. "Where have you been?" he asked.

That was a change. She slid into the chair, taking his place, absorbing the warmth he had left in the cushions. "I went to see Draco," she said.

Harry knelt on the floor, his hand on her knee. "Did he tell you about Ron?"

"Eventually." She met his eyes. "You knew, didn't you? You knew all of it."

"I did. I tried -- I tried to tell you it wasn't what you wanted."

"No, it wasn't. But it was --" She stopped and covered his hand with her own; he turned it in hers to clasp her fingers, and his grip was warm and strong and real. "It was enough," she said.

*

5.

The knock came at about a quarter to three. Draco didn't move from the couch, but he heard the door to his office open, then the inner door, then footsteps moving along the corridor. There was only one person he knew of who could break through passcoded doors at Hogwarts.

A moment later, Harry stepped into the dying light of the fire. "Hermione's asleep. We were up a while talking after she saw you."

"She wasn't here to see me," Draco said. "And before you ask, I won't be giving you the same show."

Harry sat in the chair next to him. "I wasn't going to ask."

"Come to reminisce about the good old days, then?"

"No, I just -- came to see if you were all right."

"Fine, thanks for your concern." Draco slid further down the couch, lying down on it like a bed. He threw an arm over his eyes.

"Why did you come to Hogwarts," Harry asked, "if you knew she would be here as well? You must have known you couldn't let what happened stay buried."

Draco didn't answer.

"Or maybe that's why you came. Is that it? Couldn't stand dealing with it alone anymore?"

"Please, Potter. This wasn't about therapy or unburdening my guilt. I needed the money, and I needed the protection of the castle. Didn't she tell you?"

When Harry's voice came again it was more subdued. "No. I hadn't realized."

"No one did."

"She's decided to resign," Harry said. "We talked about it and...she says she's ready to move on. She'll give McGonagall notice tomorrow."

"Mornings after are so awkward. I completely understand."

Harry ignored the sarcasm. "I also think she doesn't want you to feel _you_ have to leave."

Draco tried to imagine Hogwarts without her, the trappings of her reign gradually fading away, himself left behind to rule or hide in his rooms or choose to come out for dinner. He tried to think into the future, to the end of however many years a transition back into the world required. For a moment he resented her for getting out first -- but only for a moment. Slytherins knew how to bide their time.

Draco shifted on the couch. "Why did you believe me?" he asked.

"What?"

"When I came back to Hogwarts, when I told you I'd left my father. When I told you about Ron. Why did you believe me?"

Harry shook his head. "You didn't see yourself. You were...you were so different."

Different? He remembered lying on the cot in the infirmary, wounds bandaged, stomach queasy with soup. Harry was sitting on a chair next to him, much the same as they were situated now. He had told Harry everything: the invisibility cloak, the portkey, the fight, the Dark Mark, his father, words spilling out of him in a swift and unchecked rush. He remembered Harry's shocked numb face, pale in the dim light of the bedside candle. He remembered reaching out, thinking it was important to do something, to make Harry _believe_ before he could finish piecing it together, before he could remember to hate again.

He had grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling him closer, and when Harry leaned forward he had said, wonderingly, "You -- you're --" and stared at the tears running down Draco's face.

"I _was_ different," Draco said. "But I didn't know how much." He looked up at Harry. "Do you know, I think about Ron more than I think about my father?"

"You think about the one you feel guilty for. The one you had reason to feel guilty for."

"Had?"

Harry shrugged. "I never forgave you, Malfoy. And I won't -- I can't give you that." He met Draco's eyes. "But I've learned you have to bury the dead."

"And Hermione?"

"She'll learn it, too. It's what she does."

After a moment, Draco nodded. "All right," he said. "I suppose that's good enough."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism welcome.


End file.
